


The Call of the Running Tide

by LorettaFryingPan



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Sailing, Warlock Pacts, wild speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LorettaFryingPan/pseuds/LorettaFryingPan
Summary: Before the devil toad, before Trostenwald, before Jester and Beau, there was a tavern in Port Damali.





	The Call of the Running Tide

**Author's Note:**

> This is all probably gonna be disproved when Fjord's backstory is revealed, but since that's probably not gonna be for another 10 episodes _at least_ , here we are. I am a **huge** maritime history/sailing nerd and the second Travis said that Fjord was a sailor I knew I couldn't rest till I'd written this story.
> 
> Title from Sea Fever by John Masefield (one of my favorite poems, fun fact)

This is how it starts.

Two men walk into a bar. One of them is more well-dressed than the other, but neither of them are by any means ‘fancy.’ Fancy folk come from the capital, and they don’t waste their time in a dockside sailor’s dive. From his perch in the corner, Fjord watches them scan the crowd with half an eye.

His interest is piqued when Fjord sees one of them point to him and ask his companion something, he already knows what’s being said. Port Damali isn’t so big that one can be ignorant of their reputation.

The rundown is likely very brief. His name is Fjord, he’s a half-orc who likes a bit of whiskey and a bit of dice. He’s spent five years before the mast, but he could be a bosun or a navigator if he got the chance. Maybe even a captain, if that kind of money weren’t so damn hard to come by. He’s a steady hand and a reliable one too, he’ll work for whoever pays fairly, and that’s all that anyone knows about him. To be fair, that’s all they need to know, and this isn’t a town where people ask a whole lot of unnecessary questions.

“I hear you’re a good sailor,” the man says by way of introduction. “May I sit?”

His momma didn’t raise him to be rude, so he nods. “I’m Shane Corrigan, first mate on the _Sylph_ ,” he goes on, setting down across from Fjord. “We’re making a voyage to Marquet in a fortnight, and we’re looking for crew.”

The rest of his spiel is boilerplate, all stuff Fjord’s heard a dozen times before. They’re shipping goods; timber and furs and stuff that Fjord can’t imagine has much appeal in the desert, but somehow sells anyway. The pay is good, better than he was expecting, likely because the trip’ll be so damn long.

In the end, that’s not why he holds his hand out to Shane and says “you got yourself a deal.” He can feel the sea calling in his veins, and the thought of four month’s voyage is a good one.

 

~~~

 

Fjord’s love of the sea is a long one, begun when he was a child. The tide called to him, and as soon as he was old enough to sail his own skiff he would spend countless hours cruising around. He learned how to read the stars and the wind, how to set course and canvas and one’s feet in a gale.

So when the _Sylph_ sets out from Port Damali on a bright morning, Fjord hangs a little longer in the shrouds to look out at the dark water and breathe.

The crew quickly settles into rhythm and the first two weeks pass by without much interest. There are a couple greenhorns on the crew, and they take a little while to find their feet, and Fjord spends much of his free time helping them.

Halfway to Marquet, Captain Moore switches up the watch rotations and Fjord is tasked with going belowdecks and making sure everything is fine with the cargo. It’s a necessary job, if tedious, mostly involving killing any rats that made it aboard and making sure nothing’s been disturbed. No one’s reported anything so far, so when he notices a bear pelt that’s been dragged out of one of the crates and set high up, it gives him more than a little pause. He doesn’t make a sound, climbs up quickly and quietly as anything, and pulls the knife out of his boot.

Curled up on the pelt asleep is a young woman with dark skin and fire-red hair. Well. A stowaway isn’t what he was expecting, but it’s not the worst thing he could have found. He shoves the knife back in its sheath and shakes her awake.

“I don’t recognize you from the crew roster,” he quips.

Bright gold eyes flicker open, and focus on him. In an instant she is up and pressed against the hull, eyes darting around. There’s nowhere to run on a ship, and she seems keenly aware of that.

“What’s your name?”

“Sallah,” she replies, still tense.

“My name’s Fjord. I’m not gonna hurt you, Sallah,” he says, “but you understand we’re not too keen on stowaways here.”

“Please don’t turn me in,” she begs. “I can’t go back to Wildemount, I have to get out of there.”

Before he can even ask why, she’s launching into a hurried, frightened explanation that he honestly has a hard time following. It’s a long, somewhat rambling tale of misunderstandings and scapegoating and the gist of it, as far as Fjord understands, is that Sallah was in the wrong place at the wrong time, in a town of people who were all too willing to shove blame on an outsider.

Anywhere else Fjord would consider it a sob story used to con someone out of a favor or some coin. But he can see the fear in her eyes, and he knows that people don’t become stowaways on a lark. And hells, he knows as well as anyone that he’s got a soft spot as wide as the Wuyun Gorge. So he holds out a placating hand, even as the other is rubbing at his temple.

“Alright, alright, you can stay. The rest of the crew might not be so understanding, and if you get caught I don’t know you. But I won’t turn you in.”

“Thank you Fjord, thank you so much. You won’t even know I’m here.”

 

~~~

 

The next few days, Sallah is as good as her word. If he hadn’t seen her himself, Fjord wouldn’t have believed there were any extra souls on board at all. The pelt she had been napping on got stowed away, and he hasn’t seen it out of its crate since they met. Still, he takes some of the hardtack from his meal and saves it, bringing it down to the hold when he does a patrol.

“Sallah?” He calls quietly. “It’s Fjord. I brought you some food.”

A tiny mouse skitters up on top of a box in front of Fjord, and in an instant, shifts into Sallah. He’s so taken aback that he completely forgets about what he was doing in favor of staring blankly at her. He’s heard of shapeshifters, obviously, mages that can change their appearance at will, but there is a wide gulf between the experience of hearing about it and seeing it firsthand.

“That’s how I’ve been staying hidden,” she smiles, hopping off the box to stand in front of him.

“That’s damn impressive,” he replies, handing the chunks of tough biscuit over. “How do you do that?”

“I learned when I was little,” she explains. “My people are very inclined to magic, natural magic especially.” With a flourish of her fingers, a small flame dances in her hand. 

“My family didn’t have a whole lot of formal traditions, but I was taught how to focus energy and make it do what I want. I taught myself pretty much everything else.” She shrugs, extinguishes the flame, and digs into the hardtack.

“Can you teach me?” He doesn’t know what drives him to ask. Magic has never been a prominent part of his life-never more than bits of bone scrimshawed with runes and shells hung to ask the Wildmother’s favor for a safe voyage-but he has always been fascinated by the idea of it. To see someone command such power with so much ease is compelling.

“I don’t know how much I’ll be able to teach you in a week and a half, but I’ll try.”

He goes about his patrol while she finishes eating. When he comes back, she’s sitting with her chin on her hand in thought.

“Can I ask a favor?” She asks after a long moment.

“Sure,” he shrugs.

“Would you help me get up top? I’ll make myself small, into a mouse or something, something you can carry. I’ve been belowdecks this whole voyage and some fresh air would be nice.”

“’Course I can,” he says, standing up and holding his hand out. A blink, and she turns into a tiny grey mouse and skitters up his arm. 

The sun is almost set when they come up top, and Fjord takes a moment to enjoy the scene. The setting sun paints the deck orange and red, and with the ocean lit up as well it’s one of the most beautiful things Fjord has ever seen. The two moons are barely visible on the eastern horizon, slivers of bone in a lavender sky.

There is a sudden flash of light, and the whole crew looks up to see a bright flash of light at the end of each mast and spar, burning blue-white flames that are gone as soon as they come.

Fjord had seen them once before, on a voyage to Tal’Dorei, one of his first long-distance journeys. One of the older hands called it “The Wildmother’s Beacon”, but he’s heard it referred to by any number of names since then. It’s all anyone can talk about as the crew gets the ship ready for the night shift, so no one notices the companion tucked under the collar of his coat.

 

~~~

 

“It’s not hard, you just have to learn to listen.”

Sallah coaches him for an hour or so every day when Fjord comes down to the hold, and this has been a common theme. Listening to the natural world around him, the ebb and flow of the tide, the push of the breeze, he needs to listen to everything. And he tries, he really does, but by the time they make port in Marquet, Fjord feels like he’s made no progress whatsoever. 

“I just feel like I oughta be better than this.”

“It’s only been a week,” Sallah rolls her eyes. “And we barely have an hour a day to work. I’ve been practicing magic since I was little more than a babe.”

“Sometimes books help,” she goes on, more gently, “If you can get to the Dwendalian Empire, I’ve heard that Zadash has some great libraries, and if you can’t find something there then you’ll _definitely_ find it in Rexxentrum. There are a lot of different paths to magic, and if one doesn’t work you shouldn’t be afraid to try another.”

 

~~~

 

The Bay of Gifts is chaotic and colorful and decadent, and as much as Fjord wants to enjoy it he won’t be able to until he’s sure that Sallah has made it off the boat without incident. He drinks a couple rounds in the tavern with some other members of the crew before taking a meandering walk down the lamplit streets.

He hears rapid footsteps coming up behind him, and turns to see Sallah running up to him.

“Fjord!” She calls. “I’m glad I found you, I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.” 

“I’m glad too. Any idea what you’re going to do?”

She shrugs, smiling. “None whatsoever. But I’ll figure something out. I’ve always had a knack with growing things, maybe that’s where I’ll start.”

“You’ll do just fine.”

“That’s very kind of you, my friend.” She hugs him, and Fjord can feel the slight shake in her shoulders as he hugs her back.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

The moment passes, and she steps back. “I’ll stay here for a while, but if this doesn’t work out I’ll go to Ank’Harel. Don’t be a stranger,” she says, and walks off into the warm night.

 

~~~

 

The voyage back begins much like the trip there. Clear skies and fair winds, and given how much lighter the ship is that means they make very good time.

On the fifth day, the lookout spots a storm building behind them, and it quickly becomes apparent that they’re not going to be able to outrun it. Captain Moore hollers for all hands to take in sail and two dozen of them are in the shrouds, climbing as quickly as they dare, scuttling across beams and hauling canvas hand over hand.

Back on the deck, the only thing left to do is heave to, tie down, and hope. The sky blackens, lightning forks, and Fjord mutters words of comfort to the young hands as they move belowdecks.

“This ain’t my first storm,” he says, with more confidence in his voice than he really feels. “Keep your head and you’ll be fine.”

The rain beats down on the deck, trickling through the battens and down into the bilge. The flashes of lightning get brighter and brighter, the crashes of thunder grow deafening. The ship lists from starboard to port and then hard to starboard again, and the only warning they get that something has gone terribly wrong is the hull creaking loudly before the sound of splintering wood comes from above on the deck.

Fjord goes up top just in time to watch the main-mast, struck by lightning, come crashing down across the deck in a mess of wood and metal. Captain Moore was at the helm when the storm began, but Fjord has no idea if he’s still there. Or still alive.

The ship begins to tilt under the unbalanced weight, and there’s precious little time before she’s on her beam ends and capsizes. Fjord yells for the rest of the crew and they leap into action, moving everything they can to the other side of the ship to buy themselves a bit of time to get rid of the broken mast.

It’s no use, though, because before they can finish the deck is pitched at such a steep angle no one can stand anymore, and Fjord is in the water. Lashed by the rain and the wind, he struggles to stay above the surface. One piece of the mast is still floating, and he swims over to cling to it. It’s all he can do to hold on as massive waves pitch and roll him.

Finally, the storm moves on, revealing the night sky. Fjord looks around, but he can’t see the rest of the crew anywhere, and the gods only know where he’s been blown. He recognizes the stars, and which way he’s probably heading, but that’s all meaningless if he can’t figure out where he is.

It would still be meaningless even if he knew where he was, since he has no way to get home.

Exhausted, he closes his eyes. The waves lap around him, and now that the winds have calmed it’s the only thing he can hear. Remembering Sallah’s words he listens, hoping that if these are his last moments, he at least hears _something_. But nothing comes. The last ounce of strength in his arms slowly fades, and he loses grip on the mast, sinking beneath the waves. 

“Is that it? Are you giving up?”

It’s little more than a whisper, sourceless in the dark. Fjord almost thinks he imagines it, until it keeps going.

“All those storms you’ve weathered and you just _give up_? You’re stronger than that. Open your eyes.”

Somehow, he finds the will to creak his eyes open. He sees a glow in the water, a faint shimmer of phosphoresence that draws his attention. He’s seen glow like that before, in much warmer waters. He pulls the strength from somewhere within him and twists around towards it.

“There it is. You could bring the tides themselves to heel with that will.”

There’s no way to tell which way is up, but he swims toward the light. His limbs carve long, slow strokes through the black brine, and his lungs begin to burn.

“If only you had the power to match it.”

His face breaks the surface of the water and he gasps.

“I can help you with that.”

“Fuckin’ prove it.” Fjord replies because hell, what has he got to lose?

He hears a distant, whispery laugh, and darkness takes him.

 

~~~

 

He dreams about a forge. The steady, ringing beat of a hammer against hot metal. He dreams of black sails and smoke. He dreams of blue-white fire and the beasts that sleep beneath the waves. He dreams of a blade.

He wakes up.

That’s the first surprising thing. The second, and rather _more_ surprising thing, is that he wakes up on a beach. His clothes are tattered but still keep most of the chill away, so once he picks the kelp off he slowly gets to his feet and walks inland. The people he finds in the nearest village are surprised to see him walking out of the sea, but they take it with good enough grace.

Turns out he’s washed up on the southern end of the Menagerie Coast, and when he tells the folk in town his story they find him someone willing to help him get passage north.

The first leg of his journey back to Port Damali is in the back of a hay cart, and his thoughts are consumed by the odd voice he heard the night the _Sylph_ went down. There’s something in the back of his head, it feels like an itch on the inside of his skull and the more he focuses on it the clearer it gets. His hands move on their own, and before he really knows what he’s doing a spectral hand appears in front of him.

“Oh shit.”

 

~~~

 

The trip northward is long and slow, but this new revelation gives Fjord something to focus on. He thinks about that itch in the back of his head, of the way his hands shifted and the feeling of pulling invisible rigging. For three days’ travel he sits in silence and meditates, and on the fourth day he finally feels like he’s done something right. He sees a shimmer across his arms and with a thought his skin turns from green to royal purple. He focuses again, and it turns paper white. He can’t contain the giddy grin on his face as he shifts colors, and it only grows wider as he learns how to tug in a different way and the taper of his fingers change, his nails grow and shrink and his arms gain and lose muscle.

That night, he has another dream. Of a rocky, wind whipped beach sheltered by bleak cliffs. He recognizes it from stories; the Shearing Channel, a stretch of water so treacherous that no ship can sail through it. Distantly, like a rising wind, he hears the voice again, for the first time since the wreck.

“Come find me. We have much to discuss.”

 

~~~

 

By the time he arrives in Port Damali, he has a small amount of gold that he earned doing odd jobs along the trip. He thanks his traveling companions for their aid and parts ways, heading to the nearest general store to buy a few road provisions and a bedroll. He doesn’t seek out further passage northward, he just walks out of the city and follows the stars.

When he makes his way through the woods, he can tell that he’s close to the channel from the smell of salt and the whistling of the wind. The cliffs on the edge of the channel are tall, but not solid, more akin to shorn-off hills now that he’s seeing them from this side. He picks his way between them, and makes his way down to the waterline.

On a clear day, you can see Tal’Dorei across the channel, the white rise of the Alabaster Sierras on the edge of the horizon like a dragon’s spine. Days like that are few and far between; today the sky is leaden, and fog hangs low and oppressive over the rough water.

This. This is the place. He knows that what he’s been called to is here, as sure as he was born. He wades into the surf.

The water is _frigid_ , tossed as it is by the constant winds. But that tug, that inexorable, tidal pull, is drawing him deeper and deeper beneath the waves. He feels his lungs begin to ache but still he dives down, looking for something, anything.

To his right there is a flash of blue light, like the fey light he saw coming off the spars of the _Sylph_. He looks over and sees the hilt of a sword, stuck between stones. A faint blue glow wafts off of it, and he reaches out.

Once, when he was young, he made the mistake of wrapping a line around his wrist, so when a brisk wind caught his sail it pulled his arm out of its socket. He never made the mistake again, just like he never forgot the feeling of his shoulder being shoved back into place. A hard pop, and then everything was where it needed to be.

The feeling of pulling the sword out of the crevice is exactly like that, only without knowing that anything had ever been out of joint to begin with. The grip fits in Fjord’s hand like it was carved exactly for him.

He swims back to the shore and examines the blade. It’s a falchion, long and broad and positively wicked looking. The hand guard is crusted with barnacles, but the blade itself is completely clear of rust. And even though the seawater has finished running off of Fjord, there’s still rivulets running off the blade and pouring onto the stones.

“Hello there,” he says.

“Hello yourself,” the blade replies.

This is how it starts. Fjord stands on the rocky shores of the Shearing Channel, dripping seawater and holding a barnacle-encrusted sword in his hands. The waves pound the beach in time with his heart, rising past his knees and it should be pulling him back under but it’s not. He holds the blade up to his ear, and he _listens_.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story, let me know what you think! I'm also Lorettafryingpan/djinn-and-djuice on tumblr, I'm always down to chat :D
> 
> (For the curious, Sallah is a Fire Genasi druid, and "The Wildmother's Beacon" refers to a real weather phenomenon called St Elmo's Fire)


End file.
